"sclera" poems
Pretty little iris
****** white sclera
Despite those tempting lashes
Her lies are getting clearer
Come a little closer
Squeeze a little tighter
She's squinting a little thinner
But her pupils are getting wider
She wants your focus now
Don't trust those golden eyes
It only takes a little peek
To fall for those gorgeous lies
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
The iris of your eye
Is the iris of the field
Ticking to the tock of the tire swing’s
Strawberry lemonade hypnosis
The pupil of your eye
Is a pupil of the universe
Breathing in all the wisdom and the heartbreak
Like a little black hole sponge
The sclera of your eye
Is the blinking white lights of the Ryman
Illuminating Hartford’s most exquisite fiddle solo yet
Projected down from the great riverboat in the sky
The lashes of your eye
Own the sliding boards at dusk
After all the children have heeded the dinner bell
And the rains roll in from the west
The tears of your eye
Remember your dancing days
Before the war took its toll
And youthful drops of dew still rested upon the irises
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
In the darkly lit room
Hangs the smell of doom
As he babbles about his eyes
He seems bent on a mission
To paint a bleak vision
His elation isn’t disguised!
*I’ve them aplenty
My eyes bloodied
In surgeon’s needles
Retinal detachment
Cataract
Glaucoma
There isn’t a trauma
My eyes haven’t suffered*
His eyeballs roll
On the sclera
In perverse pleasure
*I don’t mind
If I go blind,
The misery around
Doesn’t make eyesight a treasure*
I haven’t met a man
To himself this inhuman
Treating the most valued lens
With such immense disdains
More than my suffering eyes
He says in glee undisguised
*I suffer your cruelty,
That’s when you say
It’s my way
To garner sympathy!*
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
The devils daughter she was
Birthed from sin
Opposites attracted
One night of
Sadistic
Heavenly
Pleasure
Burnt from her mothers womb
Cries that awoke
Heaven
&
Hell
She was a beauty unparalleled
Her eyes a contrast
Sclera's were as black as death
But pupil's & iris as
White as silk
She was no ones fool
Knowledge
Satanic
Heavenly
Imbued with in her thoughts
Knowledge was her power
"Angel Winged"
"Devils Horns"
She bathed in holy water
She liked the feel of it upon her skin
"Burning with pleasure"
"Her horns burn bright"
She is akin to both the feelings of
Pain,
&
Pleasure,
For she was of
Heaven
&
Hell
Though both sent lower minions
For the sacrilege birthed
An abomination of beauty and sin
But she was her own person
Not bowing to either above or below,
She was of two worlds,
While living in plain sight,
That girl with black fire in her eyes she is the
Angels Devil of Purity & Sin.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
An unsound disorder takes host
In a body for years I’ve loved
Memories becoming all but ghosts
Cell by cell with blackness she rusts
In each vessel of her sclera
In each fold of her fine vocals
In each tear of her mascara
The feat of a smile totaled
From a world all but brightening
Living in walls crafted by fear
Each breath, a scream of lightning
New evenings; old muscles speared
The feat of a smile totaled
Amidst an eerie, white speech
In each fold of her fine vocals
A desire for love beseeched
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
I tie threads to my eyelids
Pushing them down,
Shutting them for the day,
Putting myself to sleep.
One eye bats, then the other; perhaps together,
But they never fully close.
The sclera shines and lines like the sea waves’ froth.
I rest my head, curled-up in bed
While the words begin to follow
And I ask myself
“Should I get up and write or just let it go?”
The right eye whispers,
“Sleep, poor ***** let’s write when the sun shines tomorrow,”
But the impatient left, stares hard and says,
“What if you forget it all with the morning sorrow?”
So I gather the thoughts on my pillow,
Grab a paper and a pen; they say “hello!”
I write my own lullaby,
Scribble and sigh,
Oh, it’s just another sleepless night,
But I feel alive
Because I write, I write,
Oh I write.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
it was hard not to notice
her suffocating stance
eliminating life
from breath
stark contrasts clashed
chemist stench rife
clawed nails fought
with burnt electric hair
face caked with
false promise
rude lips bled
in twisted shapes
mismatched words
shot giddily from
handgun mind
long since spent
guests' amused disdain
stilled at sharp madness
flashes of veined sclera
screamed woe
signatures etched on
death warrants
coffin lids
clamped shut
wild assertions
rank religious fervor
vomited about
a hushed room
charity's stretched
compassion quit
in rush to regain
a summer's peace
efforts to impress
stabbed coarsely
dense air strangled
rational thought
guilty images beset
tortured space
noxious noise
begging revolt
yet collective dagger
falls aside mute
lest honour
too is lost
as raucous gasps fail
to impress
with anything
less than
dreams
of a quiet book
easily wooed
by a silent stream
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
electricity in these aortas
that illumine the thunder storms
of the jazz pianist in my brain
echoing finger taps up
and down the spinal column
triggering solar flares
in the sclera
puffs of thought drip
through these neurons
and seep into my soul
blackening the happenstance
of our existence
walking through the night skies
in my toenails
i can't seem to find you
what
where
who
how
zip
zap
tip
tap
constellations of brain cells
deadened by life
are seen in the pools of
my ear cavities
auratic sniffs of the spirit
leads down the path of
slavery
chained to those words
eternity doesn't care
today, tomorrow, yesterday
one big nebulous
freedom is you
and your senses
but all gone, Mister-Death-
stolen.
eat it while you can.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Within me you found
A home that welcomed
Every bit of pain,
Every bit of dry,
Dark stained rose,
And drank from the cup of
Melancholy with content
But I am not stoic
The honey laced lies which
Escaped
Your bitter mouth found
Refuge in me,
And still I,
I foolishly gave you my all
Your hands are barb wired
That you can't touch without
Making me bleed,
What's love without pain?
Snow white sclera perfected
By a black dot runs after
My dreams evey **** day
You'd think you'd at least
Have the decency to leave
My dreams the hell alone
Your love doesn't gratify,
At least not like it used to
Apologies don't grate faults
No matter how much you
Adorn them with excuses
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
sclera comes the moon,
pupils set me deep:
between the lumber of your eye
where the sunshine likes to meet.
Feb 7, 2021
Feb 7, 2021 at 5:25 PM UTC
What if we could see the oxygen
Coming off trees
Like it was this dark blue haze
Particles floating in air
Dance them around your hands
Form them together and give them
To the prettiest girl you know
Yeah,
That’d be worth it
What if we could create or manipulate
Clouds
Change color or formation
Make them white as sclera
Or thunder and pulse
I’d sculpt these clouds like a healer
Carefully and with grace
Move them inches to the left
To get the sun out of her eyes
I’d paint a ceiling many colors
Just so I could witness the hues
Drip down and turn the floor into
A splatter painted canvas
You do this to my brain
Electric receptors run down the veins
Feel a riptide under my skin
You speak; Neurons explode
Kaleidoscope in my pupils
You make my mind drip hues
Splatter paint my feet
The trees give off this dark blue haze
I collected some of it
Formed it into a small sphere
Much like a marble
It’s resting in my front left pocket
…someday, I’ll give it to the prettiest girl I know
Perhaps we’ll make clouds
And she can paint my brain
Yeah,
That’d be worth it
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:28 AM UTC
A moon disc moves around in space,
beaming white with shades of time
as the pupil of a cosmic eye,
an aperture of the mind.
Its clouded iris billows,
evolving mountains in the sky
as textured fields of cirrostratus
caressing what's divine.
There's a copper sclera of diffraction,
as concentric rings of luminescence
enjoy, for tonight, partaking of this essence.
Do the pinewood teeth serrating mountains
not speak for want of a tongue?
I know they sigh sometimes with longing
when they're moved before a gale.
I hear your storm has started calling,
as the wind whispers me your tale.
The rain's a heavy harmony,
strumming straight on panes of glass,
and those rivulets of running water
walk patience to the brink
as the eddies of a circling mind
whirl cogs which make me think:
*I see your face in scattered strangers,
your form behind the rippling of skirts.
I hope your restlessness will soothe itself
and you feel at home, here on this earth.*
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
When did love become so violent?
When did people start to hold hands in fists?
When did amorous letters turn into 140 character snips?
Reactions were real; we stumbled through hoops together head over heels
And now we stumble through scrolls with eyes-
Irises as white as the background that bleeds into bloodshot sclera-
There is no vitreous humor here...we're melting.
When did Cupid start carrying a gun?
When did value turn face towards deprecation?
When did the olive branch come from a broken tree?
When did words become weapons of divinity?
The storm we hold is long and wide-
And the power of letting it go extends the hand of life;
Vulnerable, we most definitely are as the thunder rolls
And the lightning strikes - no place to hide...
When did you swing towards my lip to make it rain even more-
When that same lip could have been a cloud on your forehead
To clear the sky?
When did love become so violent?
30 Mar 18
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
A map to treasure
An "X" perched sullen and unreachable,
Unchangeable
Immutable
Inedible
Intangible
In caves, dark
Scrawling crawling up my sclera
To blind
To bind
With direction more lethal
With words less lustrous:
Like diamonds
equaling crushed ice.
All this, a trick in the eye.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
We’re falling with a company of clouds
part of that old storm of stardust debris
Focusing through that needle’s eye to mound
On the other hourglass chamber till you breathe.
A first breath that makes the pages unfurl,
white as a newborn’s pearly clear sclera
when they’re unveiled to the light-driven world
Pages follow sun and moon together.
Every word from stranger and lover sets
hungry ink to seep and sink in lines.
Axons string the page as memory nets
caught words wrinkling, till they fill black to the spine.
Then as the body unstitches to the winds
the mind writes in white on pages within.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
Your image
Makes love to my eyes,
Like you leapt
Into my pupils,
And you swim
Naked in my iris
And then you come up
Dry and wrap yourself
In my sclera;
Teasing my retina
Irritating my fovea
Red tendrils of my macula,
As you sit on the sill
Of the windows
To my soul,
Dangling your legs
Taking a bite out of
The apple of my eye
Piercing my cornea,
This beautiful
Haunting image
Of you searing
Straight through
My hyaloid canal;
Forever you are
Burned onto my
Optic disc,
From which
I'll rewind forever
Laughing through
The aqueous humour,
You are quite a sight...
APAD13 - 030 © okpoet
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
**** me
With saccharine sighs
And cloying eyes
Their glamour entices me
These thoughts leaden in my viscera
Scarlet in my sclera
Your love is terrifying
Viscous and caustic
You’re going to destroy me
But that’s fine
I’m going to let you
Lingering in your shade
I’ll stay awhile longer
Away from myself
I’ll never be far enough
Just let me stay awhile longer
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
They flow in the meanders of streets and bars,
Warnings by enslaved sugar cane harvesters from afar.
The produce as dangerous as lashes on disobedience,
From sloshed owners of plantations delirious. Tipsy greed.
Known to colonists for driving drinkers mad,
“Le rhum rend fou” they whisper in France, gulping
The brutal inebriating substance of wrong doings,
Turning blind eyes to ancient ports of human trade.
He was a descendent of those who stayed behind,
Only to later emigrate to the Metropole, unwanted
Reminders of ungrateful history. Parents working
Hard to fulfil disillusioned dreams of opportunities.
His amber bottle, his best friend, able to turn white
Sclera red, smiles into raging smears and slurs, be it
Not a swear word, using lexicon to hurt as pupils
Dilate, for looks to stab and offend, cursing blessings.
Easier to be a victim than take responsibility, blaming
All exception made for the precious liquid, bashing
Intentions with statements of futility, projects with
Sentences of failure, as the last drop burns a sore throat.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
i've had to synthesise falling
asleep for years now,
alcohol and sleeping pills
thoroughly knock at my door
of sleep prior to the roller coaster
kin to a boxing match -
sleep chemical, sleep chemical -
dandruff and snow also -
a sweaty horse tilling to mind,
lack of dreams, too much colour
inviting otherwise...
and to and fro, and to and fro,
the remnants of a sinking ship,
a gallop, horse fed heartbeat,
a tilting, a tomorrow,
nigh tide with noon,
nigh tide with midnight,
the Thames, the Thames,
night of all circumstance
reduced to reaping a harvest
of beetroot
or shimmy a fake discourse
with embarrassment; eternity in the eyes
of logging and the foggy qualm;
clay subduing marble to state a David
in fingerprint of Michelangelo -
sire the power of indentation for printed
canyon with crayon -
etymology in practice:
Polish skleroza, avid formulation
of sclera, itemised -
-rose, -rossa, pinkish, barbarossa..
the whitened forgetfulness...
the rosy forgetting...
skleroza, the whitening of the eye...
róża - rose, pinky white, beauty of
forgetting...
Heidegger's dasein is no more than
a copula... a connective-compound...
grammatical words undress all philosophical terms
to a nakedness, e.g., whereby dasein becomes
merely a copula.. shortcrust bread, poison ivy,
it's not the meaning that's necessary,
but the musicology without brass or woodwind,
what's required to breed poetry like a viral
infection is accent, the oddity -
or let's fly the kite of the free reign of language
accommodating the many individuals to be
further expressed.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Being puny, young and too impatient to understand time would eventually change me, I sulked at the unfairness of the world.
He sensed I felt exactly what I was: a limp sapling too fragile and green to be allowed join the hunt of adventure with the older children.”Fetch me water from the well,” he said, more so a suggestion than a request.
Galloping to show my pace under his constant protective eyes, I reached the stone hemmed shaft.
Looping the rope through the eye of the weighted pail handle, I eagerly watched the vessel plummet into oblivion. Savouring the echoed dunk and gulp. The silent count to seven reverberated within.
Bracing myself in a determined stance. Straining against the initial load, I heaved. Hand griped over hand grip on the thick rough hemp cord. I allowed its slack to gather as it wished on the earth by the foot of the attached secure spike.
The last hoist was always the hardest for me. Trying as I could to avoid the bottom of the pail from striking the lip of the well. Swinging it clear, I untangled the umbilical cord. I carried the burden with dread. One arm was awkwardly angled for balance in case too much sloshed over the brim and soaked my feet, or worse, dampened my chances to prove my worth.
“Place it on the bench.” He nodded to the far end from where he sat as rigid and as tragic as a dense tree stump hinting at the might which he once was. Standing by his shoulder, I watched him overlap the flesh of his bog-wood tough hands into a cup. Without a flinch or goose-bump to note the coolness of the water, he sank his hands into the pail.
He slowly raised the basin of flesh. From the gathered pool minute drips seeped back into its source. He looked at me with his tricolour eyes of pitched pupils moated by iris of speckled cloudy blue in a sclera battlefield tinged with a sepia hue.”This is all I can lift. You’ve carried more than I one-handed.”
He sipped the last of the diminishing pool, only wasting the dampness of his fingers upon his woolen top. I followed his gaze to my own petal hands. I did not notice him leaving as I examined my palms in a new light.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
It was born small,
A drop of water in a tub of oil,
But the inevitable happened:
It grew,
It engulfed me,
Like an infinite sclera.
A distorted mirror,
Some part of me
Knew it was false,
But the tendrils of transformation
Restrained me, It hurt,
But it was also pure ecstasy.
Now I cannot reject its pleasure,
I now know who I am,
The tendrils guided me,
At a small cost of ignorant bliss,
I now know who I am,
I am Chelsea Krona.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
when i applied for edinburgh
i was thinking:
i have to get away from these people!
i could have applied
for Oxbridge without thinking,
i applied for Bristol - fair enough,
if some dean asked me to recite
Wordsworth i'd have recited
a recipe saying 'rustic ambiance, you
see, better a recipe off the top
of my head than a date in a chinese restaurant
citing woo 'rds' worth',
like today with leftover Moussaka -
is aubergine the national veg of greece?
anyway, the salad:
spring assortment of cow dung in reverse,
cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, basil,
spring onions, a drizzle of ****** olive oil
infused with chillies,
balsamic vinegar, and half a teaspoon of honey,
salt and paper to taste... wordsworth can ****
his magpie and lark's worth of recitation,
i rather recite a recipe, in line with his
rustic residence -
like me tonight, in no man's land between
shy-urban (suburbia) and the wild parts of
the land, three beers perched on a fence
looking into the dark void of a scaled down
forest - you don't get any crows in urban areas...
indeed Edinburgh was the prime gothic
resurrection, Frankenstein's monster could
have been my neighbour -
whereas some in the grizzly north
attack the sky with colours like the houses
in St. Petersburg (pink, azure,
chickpea), other's embrace the grey
with very mundane coloured architecture,
thus when a chance sunshine comes through
people tend to look up and watch with glee -
Edinburgh brown - stonemasons' slip
of the tongue.
a murky yellow moon, a sclerosis of the moon,
the shining part in reverse
where the night the x-rayed sclera
and the moon the pupil fully illuminated with
gossiping sun in want of a listen;
a murky sclerosis yellow moon - fine agreement
with the thinning clouds that
could never be used for Mickiewicz's castles
in perfect blue and perfect cotton cauliflower contrast
of the zenith by the perpetuated day in mirror-standstill.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
I see you every time I pass a place of old memories.
My eyes try to blink away the tears
His love was treachery
A ****** up affair
The scent of you
Earth and musk
Lingers in the breeze
Dawn to dusk
I taste you
On the tip of my tongue
(It’s kind of like a tattoo)
At the back of my throat
(God, we were young)
Your hands traveled
Down a lace thong
Unraveled my heart
Along with a black bra
I still hear your voice
Sighing words into my skin
Ringing alarm bells in my ears
Divulging secrets to my eager grin
My eyes have been overcast since the day you left
Reminders burned into my fovea centralis
(birthdays, favorite cigarettes, us undressed)
My sclera turned into translucent glass
All I hear is relentless noise
Or mindless buzzing
All I taste is alfalfa sprouts and chouse
I catch your cologne
Performing ballet in my clothes
(I should have known)
You always enjoyed
Feeling the drumming of my empty heart
Pumping blood to five senses that dance
To the beat of broken abstract art
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 4:13 AM UTC